


Pretty Things

by FreyaFallen



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Dark, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Discussion of Necrophilia, F/M, Graphic Dirty Talk, Not Beta Read, ambiguous ending, author does not know russian, but tried to get it right, talk about snuff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-24
Updated: 2020-06-24
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:21:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24886741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FreyaFallen/pseuds/FreyaFallen
Summary: During the Battle of Hogwarts, things do not go as planned. When Hermione flees to the Forbidden Forest, Dolohov hunts her down and takes revenge.
Relationships: Antonin Dolohov/Hermione Granger
Comments: 23
Kudos: 144





	Pretty Things

**Author's Note:**

> I just finished a long (original) piece, so I decided to write a palate-cleanser in form of a one-shot.

Her hair whipped across her face as her feet pounded into the ground beneath her. She was running flat out, hardly able to duck branches in time, her feet hitting the earth only long enough to bound back up. Though her wand was in her hand, she hadn’t a thought to use it… not yet. 

There were yells and groans and screams filtering through the rushing air in her ears, all of it falling into a strange song with her battering heart and rushing breath playing the beat. She had to keep going until-- until--

_No, Hermione. Don’t think; just move._

She couldn’t stop yet.

  
Hermione rocked backwards as she collided with something solid. She almost lost her footing, but a vice wrapped around one arm and held her steady, sneakers catching the earth firmly beneath her feet.

Her rasping breaths tightened her chest as her eyes rolled up, up and locked onto those of a predator, black eyes boring into her with all the fury of an eagle.

A rush of memory, a flash of purple in the darkness colliding with her chest. The fingers of her free hand brushed against the lingering scar under her shirt and she jerked back. She opened her mouth to curse him, but his steely hand flung her arm wide and the red collided instead with a tree, twigs and leaves raining down. 

Hermione kicked ineffectually, beating at him now as well, but he calmly plucked her wand from her hand and kept staring into her.

“Hermione Granger.” Her name sounded strange in his voice and tinged with the same darkness in his eyes. “I was hoping I’d be the one to find you.”

“Go to Hell,” she ground out, stomping on his foot with all her weight; but she was especially slender from so long on the run, and he wore boots that were far steadier than her tennis shoes.

“Hm.” He flung her wand away and gripped her jaw. “Tell me, do you bear a scar from my curse?”

She sneered at him with all the disgust a Malfoy could have for one of her status. “How’s your head? Memory a little fuzzy?”

“Little bitch!” He thrust her toward the ground, a grunt forced from her lungs as her chest thumped on the forest floor.

“Is that the best you’ve got?” Hermione taunted even as she rose up in a crouch and tried not to let her eyes give her away by darting to her wand. “ _Accio_ \--”

“ _Crucio_.”

The pain seemed to rise from within her, like it had been locked inside of her by Bellatrix Lestrange all those weeks ago, and was now set free once more to course through her veins like acid, eat at the marrow of her bones, thrill over every tender nerve. It was more real than the forest around her, than the battle raging on, than even the sun slowly rising through the heavens. Every new contortion only fed into it, and she was becoming indistinguishable from it, as though her body were giving form to the pain. It was unending. It was everything. It was--

Heaving breaths rattled her sore chest as she slowly came back into awareness outside of the curse. Her fingers twitched, her legs jerked. Dolohov’s Cruciatus was somehow more powerful than the mad woman’s who had first introduced her to the curse. 

She laughed humorlessly and scrubbed across her cheeks with a hand that threatened to fall to the ground with the effort. “Not as creative as the last curse, but effective nonetheless,” she croaked.

The heavy crunch of leaves beneath boot thudded in her ear and she blinked as Dolohov stared down at her face, his eyes a cold abyss. “The Dark Lord only cared about handling Potter personally. He bade us clean up the dregs.” His accent strangely added a cruel lilt to his voice. It was near, but not quite, like Viktor’s. “How fortunate for me to stumble upon Potter’s Mudblood.”

Hermione’s lip curled and she shifted to roll to her front, but the boot beside her head slammed into her shoulder and she cried out before she could help herself.

“How I’ve longed to finish what I started at the Ministry. Now, _koshka_ , be a good girl and answer my question.”

Her brows twitched, but even that hurt, so Hermione took a slow breath and tried her best to relax. The weight of his boot was ungodly combined with the shaking, tense muscles that had just been through hell. What bloody question was he on about?

“Did my curse mark you?” he pronounced slowly, one dark brow quirking at her silence. 

Wetness as her tongue nervously darted across her lips. Her voice was soft, hoarse. “Yes.”

“Hmph.” His eyes narrowed either in amusement of suspicion. His lips only twitched. “Show me.”

The word rushed out before she could think better. “What?”

“Show me your scar.” 

She swallowed thickly through her knotted throat muscles, eyes darting to his foot. His head canted, then he lifted his boot from her and gestured for her to get on with it.

One trembling hand reached for the zip of the pink shirt she wore, fumbling at the little metal pull. When she finally had a grip on it, the teeth seemed to part with ominous shivers. His black eyes darted from her face to her hand, and when the vee of her ever-opening shirt revealed her, wearing only a dingy blue bra beneath, his lips parted. There, just at the notch between her ribs, the scar began. It had finally faded to white, but it was thick at that point, branching off like lightning beneath her breasts, just marring the top of her stomach. 

Hermione stopped unzipping just above her navel, and grimaced as she watched the man lower to crouch over her. When the fingers of his left hand danced above her, she flinched back. “Don’t!”

“You have no power here, Mudblood.” To emphasize his point he flicked his wand and her limbs snapped straight. A full body-bond. She ached in the tense forced position. He smiled then; or at least the corners of his lips raised. 

His fingertips were cold as they pressed against the bundle of scar tissue. They splayed to follow the burn-textured branches. “I’ve never seen the after-effects, you understand. It has always killed my opponents.” His voice was thoughtful now as he finished unzipping her shirt and pushed it off her sides to reveal more flesh. His thumb ran along one slender rib from her side to her stomach. “Did it hurt very long?”

She thought about denying him, but the fury she’d seen before still lingered in the background, so she hummed assent.

“Did you need treatment?” He was back to looking at her face, but his hand was flat against her now, heavy and calloused. When she hummed again, his nostril flared and he exuded pleasure. “Does it still hurt sometimes?”

Tears leaked coldly from the corners of her eyes as she gave him the answer he longed for. He groaned and stroked one down her cheek.

“You make such a pretty little victim, _koshka_. All contained fire bound in a sweet little package, just imperfect enough that destruction makes you sweeter.” Hermione tried to look past him, to ignore the words he was murmuring over her as his thumb made little circles on her cold skin. “And I _will_ enjoy destroying you, _koshka_. In every way.” He pulled her up with him and slung her over his shoulder.

He strode with long, confident steps through the forest and back to the castle., The battle was running down now, though there were sobs and cries everywhere around her. Hermione couldn't see anything but the ground and her captor, and she found herself almost relieved that she could not bear witness to the horror abounding.

Occasionally Dolohov would nod or murmur at one of his fellows, some of whom hooted when they saw the prize he carried with him. But he ignored offers to help and crude suggestions, focused on entering the ruins and finding a private, still-standing classroom. It was there he laid her on the floor.

“ _Finite_.”

Hermione gasped, shivers running over her body as control returned to her. She wasted no time in fleeing to a far corner and hunching in on herself. The large man blocking the door considered her, then set about casting silent spells. 

He chuckled and shook his head, pushed back his dark curls and fixed his eagle stare on her. “You’ve been declawed, little lioness. Will you still fight?”

“With everything I have,” she spat back, raising her fists to guard her face. While it was useless against magic, it at least made Hermione feel prepared.

Dolohov summoned a chair and fell back into it, one long leg folding to set one ankle upon the other as he considered the young woman in front of him. “You were sixteen when we-- dueled, yes?”

Her eyes narrowed at his casual manner. “Yes.”

“And you are eighteen now?” He lifted a brow at her.

“So?”

He tapped his lips with one forefinger, eyes roving her form. “A grown woman now. And so pretty.” She hated the way he said that word almost as much as she hated the glint in his eyes. “I am just wondering how many men have sunk their cocks in your sweet cunt.”

Nausea and heat almost lifted Hermione from her own body, tingling through her stomach, up her chest, through her throat, until a disgusted grunt burst from her lips. She rolled her jaw, trying to ignore the pain fluttering from tense muscles. “That is none of your business.”

“On the contrary, _koshka_ , I need to know what precautions to take before I rape you.”

The room hummed in that high, eerie pitch that cut through everything as the word drilled through her. She shook her head, curls mussed from the fight falling into her face as she backed into the wall and flattened herself against it.

“Oh.” He smirked gently. “Are you a virgin? How lucky for me. You really are ripe for defilement, aren’t you?”

“No.” The word sounded more certain than she felt, eyes hot and body flushed with adrenaline.

“The victim does not get a say, _koshka_.”

Her nails were sharp against the tender flesh of her palms and her head hurt from the force with which she shook it. “I’d rather die.”

Dolohov tapped his wand against his leg. “After, _koshka_. I am not Greyback, to take pleasure in a warm corpse.”

Her stomach turned again and Hermione was glad of the little food she’d had of late, not desiring to spill her guts in front of this cruel man. “I will fight you.”

“I look forward to it.”

Her vision was blurring, but she would not close her eyes even to blink. “I’ll kill myself first.”

“You won’t.” He stood and stalked toward her, stopping two paces away. “You are a lioness, a survivor. You will fight to the last moment. It is quite lovely, your fire. I wonder how your amber eyes will look as I extinguish it.”

A sob bubbled up from her chest and she edged along the wall, but he flicked his wand again and her feet were stuck in place. Hermione huddled once more and tears began to cascade as she wrapped her arms around herself and wished desperately for her boys to rescue her again.

“Oh, little lion, have I broken you so soon?” The cool tip of his smooth wand tilted her chin up. “Look at me, Hermione.”

Her eyes popped open at her name, a gasp leaving her parted lips.

“There she is.” His large hand ran across her cheek and tangled in her curls, combing through almost gently before he fisted a handful. “Pretty little girl. I’ve dreamt of this moment every day since our first meeting, devising so many ways to make the Golden Girl crumble to dust.” He yanked her up, neck craning toward his face, and nosed across her cheekbone to rumble in her ear. “How is it you smell so sweet, hm? Like a flower.” His teeth scraped against the sensitive skin just below her ear and a pathetic whimper wormed into her throat. “You won’t smell like flowers when you’re rotting. You won’t taste so lovely either.” His tongue flicked to soothe where he’d bitten. 

Dolohov pulled away to gaze down at her face. It had gone strangly blank, her breaths even and short. She blinked and her eyes refocused on him.

“Go to Hell.”

It was hardly a whisper, grinding out of her throat like a growl. “You are too cute. But you will be going there far sooner, _koshka_. With my seed freshly buried in your sweet, bloody cunt.”

The anger felt good, helped separate her from the powerless being held by the Death Eater. His amusement fed into her banked fire and it flared blindingly through her. She spat straight into his harsh, smiling face.

Her cheek stung with the force of a backhand she didn’t see coming and she fell to her knees. That little bit of pain was nothing to the satisfaction she felt in watching him wipe at his face. 

“You insolent little Mudblood. Are you trying to worsen your predicament?” He shoved her to the ground, legs sprawling over hers, one forearm across her chest to pin her down. “If you wanted the full force of my ire, you could have asked. I am happy to oblige such an eager victim.” He ground his hips against her and Hermione cringed deep in her skin at his hardness, a stark reminder of his intent. “All you do is sweeten my triumph.” 

He was too close; she could only smell him around her-- the musk of sweat mixing with forest and smoke. His breath was hot on her cheek, a sharp contrast to the cool floor beneath her other. He seized her chin in his too-large hand and forced her back to him. “I have been saving it for you, withholding after my last escape.”

Hermione was panicking deep beneath her surface, heart slamming into her ribs so fast it hurt. She had to do something, anything. A declawed lioness, he’d called her.

His skin ripped under her nails as they flashed across his face and he roared. She tried for his wand, hoping the attack had weakened his grip, but Dolohov slammed her back into the floor and her head banged against the stone. 

“ _Incarcerous_.”

Her wrists were bound and he used another spell to secure them on the stone floor above her head, opened her completely to him. His wand went away and he flourished a knife in its place. “I want you completely bare to me, but Muggle means seem more suited for a Mudblood.”

Dolohov kneeled back on her hips and trailed the knife over her stomach. He then began to hack away at the sleeves of her jean jacket until it was in tatters on the floor. Her pink zip-up followed and Hermione began to struggle in earnest again. “No, no!”

Another backhand knocked against her cheek dizzily. It took exactly three snicks of the knife for her breasts to be bared to him, dusky nipples pebbling in the cool air. He chuckled and tucked the knife away, then palmed the little mounds, squeezing them gently in over-warm hands. “Pretty little handfuls. Have any of your boys seen these?” She shook her head furiously and kicked the air. “Almost a pity.” He switched his grip to tug and twist one nipple between thumb and forefinger, and bent his head to suck the other into his mouth.

Hermione choked at the sudden heat and softness. His teeth were just the slightest edge, tongue flicking across her nipple as he applied gentle pressure. Her other nipple was twisted and massaged.

His eyes rolled upward and her cheeks heated as they locked on her own. The realization floated through the sensations that his eyes were not black after all; instead they were the color of the deep, stormy sea. And they were trying to drown her in their hunger.

His mouth came off her with an obscene, wet pop and he shucked off his robes. The buttons of his shirt under it flew across the room in a shower of little pings. He eased back to her knees and worked at her jeans. As the button of her fly released, Hermione snapped back to the present.

“No! Don’t, please.”

“We’ve been over this, _koshka_ ,” he rebuked. “Victims do not have a choice.” He tugged off her jeans and panties more easily than she’d have believed, considering her thrashing, and he straddled her thighs once more, nudging them apart as she sobbed without tears. His fingers darted between her legs and he groaned, staring down at the thatch of dark curls. “Did you enjoy my mouth on your little tit, kitten?” He chuckled at her adamant denial. “The wetness between your legs says otherwise. Oh, poor little lioness. Did you imagine you would feel only pain? Do you feel guilty your little body is enjoying my attentions?”

“Shut up, shut up, shut up.”

He nearly purred as he brought the hand between her legs to his mouth and lapped off the slick. And then it was at his trousers. He opened his fly and pushed them down, and Hermione turned her head away.

“No, no, _koshka_. Look.” His fist in her hair directed her face forward again. “Look at what will be splitting you open. Or are you a coward?”

Gryffindor to her marrow, her eyes batted open. He lifted a heavy brow in challenge and she took a deep breath, allowing her gaze to traipse down his chest. It was hard muscle, adorned with dark hair that thickened below his navel and down to--

Her heart stuttered at the sight. 

She had only felt one through the clothes before this, and that only twice, so she had no point of reference. But Hermione’s clever mind was already trying to calculate, seven inches, thick, ridged and veiny and just a little darker than his skin. When she had run through the comparisons of that to her fingers and realized how damned she was, she finally skittered back to his face where his head was tilted expectantly.

She could feel her thready pulse in her throat. “Is that all?”

Dolohov threw back his head as a full-throat laugh rang out. “That’s rich, _koshka_. But I am quite aware of how I _measure up._ ” He crawled up to slide his length against her core and she stilled to the point her muscles trembled with the effort. “Shall I prepare you more?” He was rolling his hips so his head pushed against the bundle of nerves until it hardened. He licked her cheek when she turned her head again, smirking down at her. The wall was to her right, so she was turned to the open room. He rested his weight on his forearm there and her eyes opened to face the writhing, cruel Dark Mark. “What would your friends think, Hermione, if they could see you now? If they could smell this ripe cunt, drooling for a Death Eater? It is so fortunate for you that they are both dead.”

“Fuck you!”

“Hmph.” His nose tickled her hair. “If you insist.”

He did nothing to open her before pushing himself inside, and it _burned_ as he tore and forced himself in. His hips pulled back and forward in a slow, smooth motion, agonizing as it dragged over her walls. “And now a little blood to help ease my way,” he groaned, breath hot on her ear. “Oh, fuck, _koshka_ , so tight.” A stream of Russian spilled from his lips as he thrust rhythmically and slowly over her. “Tightest little _blyat_ I’ve ever fucked.” As she opened enough, slickened by the blood of her broken hymen and the desperate lubrication of her body, he picked up the pace, thrusting especially hard at the end of each stroke. “Do you like that, _koshka_? Is that what you want, hm, want to be my little whore?”

Hermione was sobbing again between gasps and whines of her own. His hands were tweaking her nipples, sending confusing strums of heat toward her core, and his pelvis was rolling against her front at the end of each thrust. It felt good and awful and electric and scorching all at once. 

“Yesss,” he hissed over her. “I can feel how slick you’re getting for me, _blyat_. You’re so hot, squeezing my cock.” She closed her eyes and tried to pray herself away, but the nature of his thrusts changed and in the space created between them Dolohov began plucking at her clit.

“No,” she moaned.

“Yes, my sweet little Mudblood whore. I have thought of so many ways this would end. With me strangling you to oblivion as I fuck you. Or cutting your throat so we both drown in your blood. Or that clean curse just as I cum. But this--” his hips bruised against her own “-- is far better than I imagined. I’m going to make you cum on my cock and ride out your pleasure before I kill you.” 

She was shaking as he shifted, pushing her legs back and settling them against his shoulders. He hit deeper this way and it hurt, the pain mixing up and tightening the hot coil he was stoking in her. Her toes curled, face scrunched as she closed her eyes. Something stroked her throat, then gripped her in steely warmth. He was choking her, just as he’d said he might. Her heart hammered against his fingers and she had to open her eyes to see something, anything, before--

There was a strange, cool, trickle starting in her toes as the heat reached its pinnacle inside her. It waved dizzily through her body, hot and cold, hot and cold, her walls pulsing around the delicious hardness between her legs.

“Fuck, _koshka_!” Dolohov collapsed onto his forearms again and his onslaught became manic. He groaned, pounding into her as though he would drive through her still-fluttering pussy, then stuttered and fell onto her so her face was trapped under his chest. She could feel herself overflowing with his cum.

He curled around her and pulled her up as he sat and fumbled with his robes. His sweaty cheek nuzzled against her forehead before planting a soft kiss to her salty flesh. “So good, _koshka_. Good girl.” There was an arm hooked around her and he was stroking her hair as he searched for his wand.

Hermione panted, the high of the orgasm draining slowly over the sloshing confusion and fear and shame in her stomach. 

“You are such a beautiful thing, Hermione.” He tipped her face toward his own and the smile there was strangely affectionate. His wand was in-hand now and she slowly turned her gaze toward it as it waved.

The world was swallowed in darkness.

**Author's Note:**

> Yeeeeppppp. So... thoughts?


End file.
